A Kiss Hello
by AdenHolmes
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Fall. Spoilers. 2nd chapter will be rated M. It's been a year since Sherlock's death, but John just can't stop visiting his grave. What happens when the day he decides will be the last visit becomes the first for something else?


**A/N: I'm not much a fan of the Johnlock pairing (if we're talking about slash) seeing as I prefer Sherlock/Lestrade, but this is a little gift for a good friend of mine. Because she got me a "crush" soda for Valentine's day I decided this would be appropriate. Plus I know a great number of people _love_ Johnlock. So here goes nothing. Mind I don't write this pairing much so it might be a tad OOC, but I'd LOVE some feed back regardless.**

**THIS WILL BE A TWO PARTER; the second part is possibly going to be rated M for ya know...sexual themes ;D **

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><p>His forehead rested heavily against the chilled smooth surface of the polished black stone. It was raining. He'd hardly noticed he was crying because of the torrential down pour that was soaking him and stinging his nerve ends with cold. Under him he could feel the mossy green grass had grown soft from the moisture. John couldn't remember the last time he'd cried, it had been before the war, of that he was sure. It probably had been when his grandmother passed away from cancer.<p>

A shiver ran through his body causing his grip on the weak –innocent– blades of grass slackened and a different kind of shiver wracked his stocky frame. The kind of shiver you'd feel when someone was _walking over your grave_ or however the myth went. It felt like someone was behind him, but he was along in the grave yard. Nobody –but him– seemed to want to spend their 14th of February among the company of the dead and their decaying corpses lying beneath the soil of the yard.

"Why?" John cried deafly, letting the mesh like material the soil had become absorb the sound as well as the water.

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><p>He didn't know who he was really talking to because there was no one else there, but John wanted desperately for someone to hear it. His therapist had said he needed to talk about it or he'd never move on. Sherlock, as odd as it seemed, had become his best friend in the time they'd known each other. Ever since he'd seen Sherlock fall from the roof of St. Bart's hospital he'd been telling himself it wasn't real that Sherlock was pulling another stunt. Of course that had only lasted until Greg Lestrade had shown up at the door step of 221B, for the first time since Sherlock had become a fugitive, with a solemn expression on his weathered face. It looked like Lestrade might have been crying and it left him feeling unsettled.<p>

"_D'you think I could come in?" he'd mumbled in an almost inaudible way._

_John nodded slowly and stepped back from the door allowing his old friend entrance. The flat was exactly the same as when Sherlock had been alive, it was as if John had simply forgotten he'd died, like _it_ had never happened. But it had and despite the fact John was obviously trying to ignore it they both knew._

_Clearing his throat John finally brought himself to speak. "Would you like some tea?" he asked._

_Awkward. It all felt awkward without Sherlock, just seeing Lestrade felt strange without having Sherlock bustling about and muttering about serial killers or experiments. Lestrade nodded and John went into the kitchenette to make the tea. _

_He returned a few minutes later with the tea mugs, took his place across from Lestrade –who was sitting in Sherlock's chair–, and passed Greg his mug. Greg murmured his thanks softly trying to offer a weak grin to John, but he could only manage a weak upward twitch of his lips._

"_So, you've got news?" _

_There was no other reason Lestrade would've stopped by especially during the day. The only response Greg could give at first was a dull expressionless nod. _

"_Yes, I have news," he muttered after a few more moments of John's anxious silence. "The DNA results came in today. It's been confirmed."_

_John's breath caught in his chest as he stared at the elder man expectantly._

"_It was him."_

John could remember with frightening detail the mental feeling of suffocation as if his brain were being compressed from every angle in an attempt to cause it to burst. It had been the second mental break down of his life, but all he'd been thankful for was that he'd been able to keep it together until Lestrade's departure a few minutes later. The arduous amount of effort it had taken him to not given in right there and curl up into a ball in his chair to ride out the waves of shock and grief washing over him. At first he'd tried to mentally reason his way through it, so sure there had to be something he was missing about the whole situation. Perhaps, he thought, Mycroft could have meddled with the results, but then John couldn't figure a reason why he would want to make people think Sherlock was dead since Moriarty was no longer a threat.

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><p>John sighed a few more tears rolling down his cheeks to mix with the rain, as he lifted his forehead from the stone, and fell back to sit on his feet with his knees still digging into the ground.<p>

"Sherlock," he murmured.

His hand shakily ghosted over the engraving of the golden letters of the legendary man's name printed into the head stone. At first he'd been appalled that he hadn't any phrase or tribute to complement his name, but now John really thought on it there was too much to say for the brilliant consulting detective. Mycroft had obviously felt the same seeing as he was the one who'd arranged the funeral. Well John thought it was more likely that he'd simply given directions to one of his staff to arrange it, but none the less he had been in charge.

John squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to stop the flow of tears. He'd spent too many lonely days visiting Sherlock's grave.

"I miss you," John muttered pulling himself to his feet. "But this is good bye."

There was a fraction of a second when John thought he heard someone walking nearby and glanced over his shoulder to check, but no one was there. For a moment he considered saying more perhaps feeling that if he continued to speak to the onyx colored head stone it might speak back to him, but rethought his decision and turned to leave. It wasn't until he was half way across the grave yard that he realized there was a soft slosh of someone walking behind him. Someone was following him. The instant the realization hit him he stopped in his tracks listening as the foot falls behind him stopped as well.

"You know, I do hope you didn't mean that back there."

If John hadn't stopped walking already he'd have broken stride the moment the familiar overly brash and knowing voice caressed his eardrums. He thought for a moment he was imagining things as he turned to face the speaker and found exactly who he'd been expecting to see.

"Sherlock?"

The single word came out as a stuttered, strangled, and strained syllable that spoke volumes about what a horrible time John had been going through without him.

"Is that?" The remainder of the question died on his lips and John found himself suddenly mute.

Sherlock nodded.

For a moment there was an awkward pause; where John didn't dare to remove his eyes from Sherlock's face, and Sherlock hadn't a clue what to do. He wasn't good at this sort of thing, never had been, and likely never would be.

Sherlock started to slowly cross the distance between them until there were less than ten centimeters of space between them. Again there was a pause, slightly less awkward than the last, before Sherlock reached out and wrapped his slim arms around John pulling him against his chest. Sherlock couldn't remember the last hug he'd given –or received for that matter– while John remembered in excruciating detail the hugs he'd received at the funeral –Sherlock's funeral.

"I missed you too," Sherlock whispered against John's neck where he'd buried his face.

John said nothing as he felt Sherlock slowly pulling away to gauge his reaction. Needless to say John was confused as well as a bit _touched_. He couldn't recall Sherlock making any such gesture before –to anyone. In fact John was so taken with the show of emotion he didn't even realize it as Sherlock's lips descended on his capturing them in a kiss. His muscles locked up as a wave of confusing relaxation and alleviation burned like ice through his veins in reaction to the kiss. Vaguely he could sense Sherlock's long nimble fingers knitting into his short locks of hair as his other hand grasped at his waist. All the while though John stood there his arms hanging limp and uselessly at his sides as the handsome consulting detective snogged the breath from his lungs. After what felt, for John like an eternity, and for Sherlock less than a second they both pulled back out of a need for air.

John stared at Sherlock wide eyed as he tried to straighten himself and his thoughts.

"Sherlock, I'm not gay."

It was the best response he could come up with though he knew how weak the statement –excuse– was after what had just happened. This was exhibited by Sherlock's rather loud snort in response to the comment.

"Everybody is so happy with their little gender titles and even the suggestion of moving from under said title is met with anger," Sherlock said.

John didn't know what to say. He certainly wasn't angry with Sherlock. He just, he didn't even know what about it had caused him to react how he had. John had always had a strangely soft spot for the quirky genius, but he'd never _really_ thought of him romantically. But there he had appeared out of nowhere after supposedly being dead for over a year and first thing he did was snog the crap out of him.

Wouldn't that throw anybody for a loop?

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><p><strong>TO BE CONTINUED<strong>


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